


The Weight of the World

by IcyPassions



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, This is my first work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPassions/pseuds/IcyPassions
Summary: Sebastian is devastated after Brazil. Charles consoles him.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 66





	The Weight of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever work of fanfiction for anything. Please let me know what you think in the comments, and leave a kudos if you liked it (not that I expect to get any, lol)!
> 
> This work is entirely of fiction. Please don't share it outside of fanfiction circles!

Sebastian ruffled his hair after pulling off his balaclava. He then unzipped his red suit halfway in a halfhearted attempt to cool himself down from the oppressive Brazilian heat. That red suit. The famous Ferrari uniform worn by its champions past with which he now clothed himself, he suddenly felt ashamed to wear. 

He half-gazed down at his car, the floor and rear wing shredded by his left rear tire. He shifted his focus to Charles’ car, with its annihilated right front suspension, sitting in an access point in the wall. “Why the fuck can’t something go right?” This was his 100th start for the red team, and he had no championships to show for it. Those around the paddock and in the media had begun to doubt his place in the team, even after his stunner in Singapore. The self-doubt inside him had been spreading like a cancer, and with each and every result he threw away it choked him like kudzu enveloping an innocent tree. The takeover wasn’t immediate, but it was assured, at least Seb seemed to think. 

His eyes suddenly snapped to Charles. He lifted his visor and stared momentarily back at Seb with cold eyes. The Monegasque then, looking down and away, turned to get on the scooter back to the paddock. Seb’s heart sunk even further. Even without any apparent show of emotion from Charles, he was crushed. He could feel those eyes pierce into his being, seemingly saying “this is your fault”. 

He knew the crash was his fault. Of course he’d spat furious German into the radio, mostly out of frustration with the situation, but the fault of the crash laid on him. He’d moved left into Charles, unneedingly, and taken Ferrari out of contention. Dejected, Seb walked down the small grassy mogul and sat down on the golf cart back to the paddock.

Charles slammed the door behind him, collapsing in a heap onto the couch in his temporary room. He gripped onto the sleeves of his suit as hard as he could, gritting his teeth in frustration. “WHY?! GOD, WHY?!” he shouted into the emptiness. He threw his hands to his sides and decided that a screw on the wall was suddenly very interesting to gaze at. 

His thoughts were filled with nothing but hazy resentment for his teammate. Ever since the undercut Seb pulled in Singapore, Charles had felt bitter towards him. He had that race in-hand, but the crew pit Seb before him. In Sochi, he was the faster car, he knew it, but Seb wouldn’t let him by. 

He knew these were selfish thoughts, and given the entire scope of circumstances it all made sense to him. “Maybe I shouldn’t be driving for Ferrari”, he thought to himself. “I’m just being young and stupid and arrogant, I don’t deserve this.” The self-resentment drifted into his thoughts like a fine mist. These were the things the media didn’t know. They always talked to the cameras before any real reflection could be done, making their teammate situation seem tense and unfriendly to anyone but themselves. Even his own thoughts had been caught up in the storm of sensationalism. He knew deep down he didn’t hate Seb. He was the best teammate one could ask for, with so much experience and a personality larger than life. 

Charles picked up his phone to temporarily distract himself and began getting rid of unimportant notifications, saving the important ones to answer later. He then heard Seb’s door close through the wall behind his head. Halting his sideswiping thumb, he placed his ear against the wall and listened.

Sebastian slumped into his plushy armchair in the corner and let his head drop to his hands. Slowly, his tears began to run, wetting his hands and running down his cheeks. All of his remaining hope of one day bringing a title to Ferrari had been washed away with a single clack of their tires. 

“I’ve lost it. I’m just an old, slow, stupid man past his prime, what am I even doing here, honestly? Someone else needs this seat more than me.”

His sobs grew in intensity as the waves of self-produced hate crashed into him harder and harder. The past year had eaten away at his passion and drive until there was but a mere shell left. Like his car, it had been shredded. He briefly contemplated going to Mattia and telling him of his resignation. This made him cry even harder, as a toxic blend of “That’s the best idea” and “What the fuck are you thinking” slapped him in the face.

His thoughts drifted to his fans, the ever-loyal Tifosi, who must be getting used to the terrible disappointment of watching his failures. He hated to disappoint others, especially those who cared about him the most. He felt he owed it to them to deliver on-track. When that didn’t happen…

He thought about the commentators, their cries of excitement and disappointment in their on-track happenings. Crofty had shouted to the world, “Oh no, he’s got a puncture! They made contact, and Charles Leclerc has got a puncture caused by contact with his teammate Sebastian Vettel!” Hardly ever did his name come up in positivity anymore. 

He continued draining his eyes out, occasionally reaching for tissues, until he heard a knock at the door. “Who is it?” he said, voice breaking.

“It’s Charles.”

“What do you need?”

Charles hadn’t prepared an answer. He briefly thought to himself, then spoke, “Are you ok?”

A brief silence followed, broke by Seb croaking, “Did you hear me?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

More silence. A “yes” then escaped Seb’s mouth.

Charles walked in and sat down on the office chair next to Seb. He rested his hand on his shoulder and spoke warmly, “It will be ok. You are just on a bad streak, and it will pass.” 

“You’re the better driver”, Seb said quickly. “You deserve to lead this team, not me. I’m always fucking it up.”

“Believe me, I am going through hard times too. With many important people to me all leaving my life, it has not been easy, thought it might not always look that way. You need to keep going because we all want you to and you know you want to, as well. I believe in you, honest.” He reached for a tissue and handed it to Seb. After using it, Seb added it to his small collection on the side table. 

“But what about the fans? Everyone surely will be getting sick of me by now.”

“You need to tune them out, Seb. Race for yourself, not just for others, and you’ll find your passion again.”

Charles rolled his chair up against Seb’s, then wrapped his arm around his upper body in a light embrace. After a brief few seconds, Seb swiveled his chair to face Charles’ and pulled him into a tight hug. He’d needed so long for someone to tell him what Charles had. He just couldn’t do it himself, because it didn’t feel the same as a real other person truly believing in him.  
Charles hugged back, resting his head on Seb’s shoulder. He was glad he’d chosen to come in. There wasn’t any hate, or despise, or any discourse of any sort like everyone said. When you spend so much time with your teammate, it’s hard to avoid fighting sometimes, especially on a stage where you are encouraged to do so. It was like any other friendship, but one in which an end was not an option, for the sake of the team and of his and Seb’s reputations.

Charles reached up and rested his hand on the back of Sebastian’s head as he drooped into his shoulder. This didn’t feel forced. This felt right. 

And it was definitely better than the alternative.


End file.
